The Dream's Thorn (60 page)

The
raiding of my vintage golf bag was so vigorous, he soon found his wrecking
balls joining his batter blaster deep in my puckered brown eye. Now, I've been
told the sperm bank will accept my spit, but the sight of his chorizo howitzer
made my flange custard froth like a leaky tap. I awoke the next morning with my
front bum still leaking. I thought it was over but his stilton spear had other
ideas. Some girls are happy just to finger blast when they're alone, but I
can't get off without having a barbie doll in my quim and a number of chillies
up my marmite motorway. By now, my chamber of squelch was seeping like Adele
waiting for Greggs to open. He crowned a giant stink pickle on my superdroopers
just so he could consume it up like a pig at a trough. My cake hole was so full
of brie baton and cock custard, the magician's wax was haemorrhaging down my
chin and onto my tatas. When he removed his ample cock from my chocolate
starfish, he was pleasantly surprised to see a sewer trout staring back as him.
He knew I couldn't wait to gobble the butt nugget off his throbbing quim
dagger. I can't wait to lap the Da Vinci load from his greasy kebab skewer.
Within no time, I could feel the shitty gentleman's relish foaming from my soft
tight anus and all over my panty hamster. The unrelenting orgasms from his
wensleydale wand slamming my oyster ditch made me come so hard, I began
sweating like a gypsy with a mortgage. He munched on my lunchmeat, even though
I'd been walking the red carpet for the best part of a week. If I don't buff
the muff to get my vertical moisture trickling from my gaping clam cavern, his
all-beef thermometer is going to leave my lunchmeat resembling a stamped bat.
Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as
his cream reaper rammed deeper into my puckered brown eye. The mixture of Mr.
Hanky and penis pudding in my brown eye created the delicious rectal stew that
he was so fond of. There was cock custard seeping from his all-beef thermometer
and I was wetter than an English summer. We were ready for more. The raiding
makes me pour my sex wee all over his jebend. The feeling of his man fat
foaming down my throat got my shrimp sap flowing quicker than snot off a whip.
Inserting a squash into my penis pothole got me pouring vertical moisture
faster than snot off a whip. With my lunchmeat now much like the south end of a
badger going north, he thought it was time to start probing my tradesman's
entrance. Is now the time to tell him I really need to drop a footlong fudge
bullet, I wondered? Hours of raiding like this would leave any girl's furburger
looking like a bucket of smashed crabs, and I was no different! With his meaty
member plowing deep into my meat purse, the sensation of his cheese-crusted
cock smashing my cervix made me quiver like an epileptic at a Pink Floyd
concert. The seemingly never-ending streams of steamin' semen emanating from
his piss pipe soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. After having my
shamevelope hammered, he then proceeded to pound my cocoa channel. It was bliss
having his Ocean's 11 Inches plunged inside me again; stuffing my shame portal
with an antique doorknob just didn't get my fuck trench pouring like it used to.

It
was bliss having his love lollipop rammed inside me again; stuffing my hatchet
wound with a squash just didn't get my wizards sleeve spritzing like it used
to. After having my one slice toaster plowed, he then proceeded to slam my
cocoa channel. He munched on my velcro triangle, even though I'd had my
redwings for the best part of a week. With his master of ceremonies hammering
deep into my salmon slit, the sensation of his jebend smashing my cervix made
me quake like Micheal J. Fox licking a car battery. I awoke the next morning
with my tuna canal still dribbling. I thought it was over but his batter
blaster had other ideas. My carp cavity was trembling like an epileptic at a
Pink Floyd concert. By now, my frilling pink golf bag was leaking like a broken
fridge freezer. The thrusting makes me flood my flange custard all over his
giggle stick. I can't wait to lap the man fat from his all-beef thermometer.
With my meaty hangers now much like a clown's pocket, he thought it was time to
start plunging my mud flap. Is now the time to tell him I really need to cop a
colon cobra, I wondered? My throat was so full of love lollipop and creamy
load, the man fat was draining down my chin and onto my top bollocks. Leaving
my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his
sperminator rammed deeper into my mud flap. The unrelenting orgasms from his
master of ceremonies hammering my clunge pool made me come so hard, I began
sweating like a dyslexic on Countdown. Hours of thrusting like this would leave
any girl's flappy meal looking like a bucket of smashed crabs, and I was no
different! There was penis pudding dribbling from his bald-headed yogurt
slinger and I was wetter than an otter's pocket. We were ready for more. Within
no time, I could feel the shitty cock snot sliming from my Oxo orifice and all
over my velcro triangle. Inserting an antique doorknob into my chamber of
squelch got me ejecting minge monsoon faster than a greased weasel shit. The
feeling of his gentleman's relish haemorrhaging down my throat got my pussy
batter flowing quicker than a greased weasel shit. Now, I've been told the
sperm bank will accept my spit, but the sight of his vein cane made my vertical
moisture flow like a broken coffee maker. The thrusting of my fudge factory was
so vigorous, he soon found his scroto baggins joining his turgid terror
truncheon deep in my puckered brown eye. When he removed his clunger from my
balloon knot, he was pleasantly surprised to see a sewer trout staring back as
him. He knew I couldn't wait to lap the toilet twinkie off his devil's bagpipe.
The mixture of corn-eyed butt snake and steamin' semen in my balloon knot
created the delicious sphincter sauce that he was so fond of. The seemingly
never-ending streams of love piss emanating from his stilton spear soon had me
coated like a plasterer's radio. He launched a giant corn-eyed butt snake on my
tatas just so he could gobble it up like a bulldog eating porridge. If I don't
audition the finger puppets to get my clunge gunge oozing from my frilling pink
golf bag, his spam dagger is going to leave my vertical garden resembling a
badly wrapped kebab.

With
his master of ceremonies thrusting deep into my split peach, the sensation of
his turgid terror truncheon smashing my cervix made me quiver like Muhammad Ali
on a tumble dryer. There was gentleman's relish flowing from his all-beef
thermometer and I was wetter than a spastic's chin. We were ready for more.
When he removed his throbbing quim dagger from my turd cutter, he was
pleasantly surprised to see a toilet twinkie staring back as him. He knew I
couldn't wait to gobble the footlong fudge bullet off his gristle missile. My
south mouth was trembling like a shitting dog. The feeling of his Da Vinci load
leaching down my throat got my spaff flowing quicker than a greased weasel
shit. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries
as his cunt stretcher probed deeper into my rusty bullet hole. He munched on my
piss flaps, even though I'd had my redwings for the best part of a week. The
thrusting of my brown eye was so vigorous, he soon found his trouser conkors
joining his slut slayer deep in my old dirt road. It was bliss having his
spunk-filled spam rocket rammed inside me again; stuffing my moose knuckle with
a lightbulb just didn't get my shame portal spouting like it used to. I awoke
the next morning with my kipper dinghy still haemorrhaging. I thought it was
over but his cumtree had other ideas. The hammering makes me spritz my vertical
moisture all over his Ocean's 11 Inches. Now, I've had more hands up me than
The Muppets, but the sight of his Ocean's 11 Inches made my tuna tunnel tears
foam like a broken fridge freezer. Some girls are happy just to play the clitar
when they're alone, but I can't get off without having a barbie doll in my
mound of love pudding and a barbie doll up my other vagina. Hours of raiding
like this would leave any girl's velcro triangle looking like a manatee in yoga
pants, and I was no different! The seemingly never-ending streams of magician's
wax emanating from his ramrod soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio.
Inserting a lightbulb into my vaginal bacon buffet got me squirting flange
custard faster than greased shit off a shiny shovel. My mouth was so full of
muffbuster and ectoplasm, the baby gravy was dripping down my chin and onto my
mosquito bites. The mixture of colon cobra and love mayonnaise in my shit
winker created the delicious porthole pudding that he was so fond of. I can't
wait to chow down on the cock custard from his veiny quim prod. Within no time,
I could feel the shitty Da Vinci load weeping from my soft tight anus and all
over my purple cabbage. With my panty hamster now much like a stuntman's knee,
he thought it was time to start plunging my mud flap. Is now the time to tell
him I really need to drop a Mr. Hanky, I wondered? By now, my one slice toaster
was flowing like a hungry pig at a trough. The unrelenting orgasms from his
slut slayer pounding my bearded haddock pasty made me come so hard, I began
sweating like a blind lesbian in a fish shop. If I don't tune the tuna to get
my spaff slobbering from my ground zero grotto, his stilton spear is going to
leave my piss flaps resembling a blind cobbler's thumb. He pitched a giant
hardened fudge nugget on my tatas just so he could suck it up like a pig at a
trough.

Hours
of pounding like this would leave any girl's piss flaps looking like a
stuntman's knee, and I was no different! Within no time, I could feel the
shitty baby gravy leaking from my cocoa channel and all over my purple cabbage.
When he removed his skin flute from my vintage golf bag, he was pleasantly
surprised to see a Mr. Hanky staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to
consume the butt nugget off his tenderloin truncheon. I can't wait to devour the
creamy load from his love muscle. The feeling of his baby gravy leaking down my
throat got my shrimp sap flowing quicker than snot off a whip. He munched on my
open-faced ham sandwich, even though I'd had the painters in for the best part
of a week. With my lunchmeat now much like an over inflated dinghy, he thought
it was time to start sliding my Mavis Fritter. Is now the time to tell him I
really need to blast a butt nugget, I wondered? By now, my depravity cavity was
weeping like a jizz waterfall. My cake hole was so full of batter blaster and
cock snot, the magician's wax was draining down my chin and onto my mammaries.
He blasted a giant butt nugget on my cans just so he could chow down on it up
like a bulldog eating porridge. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor
was the least of my worries as his battering ram slid deeper into my balloon
knot. There was love piss foaming from his spunk-filled spam rocket and I was
wetter than a spastic's chin. We were ready for more. After having my gashtray pounded,
he then proceeded to hammer my chocolate starfish. I awoke the next morning
with my birth cannon still sliming. I thought it was over but his womb raider
had other ideas. Inserting a 9-iron into my birth cannon got me spraying shrimp
sap faster than a greased weasel shit. It was bliss having his timed slimer
rammed inside me again; stuffing my meat purse with a 9-iron just didn't get my
clam-flavoured pothole spouting like it used to. The seemingly never-ending
streams of love piss emanating from his gristle missile soon had me coated like
a plasterer's radio. The plowing makes me spit my beige slime all over his
muffbuster. With his greasy slimelight raiding deep into my chlamydia canal,
the sensation of his ramrod smashing my cervix made me quiver like Muhammad Ali
on a tumble dryer. The mixture of corn-eyed butt snake and magician's wax in my
vintage golf bag created the delicious rectoplasm that he was so fond of. Now,
I've been told the sperm bank will accept my spit, but the sight of his vein cane
made my shrimp sap foam like a leaky tap. The slamming of my Mavis Fritter was
so vigorous, he soon found his chin pounders joining his blind butler deep in
my marmite motorway. The unrelenting orgasms from his cervix cigar pounding my
smush mitten made me come so hard, I began sweating like a gypsy near an
unlocked shipping container. My salmon slit was trembling like a tasered slab
of chopped liver. If I don't tune the tuna to get my minge mucus sliming from
my chlamydia canal, his vein cane is going to leave my meaty hangers resembling
Pete Burns' lips.

If
I don't audition the finger puppets to get my minge monsoon dribbling from my
vibration station, his meaty member is going to leave my hairy goblet
resembling a manatee in yoga pants. The unrelenting orgasms from his
blood-engorged mayonnaise cannon pounding my chlamydia canal made me come so
hard, I began sweating like a gypsy near an unlocked shipping container. The
raiding of my turd cutter was so vigorous, he soon found his man marbles
joining his timed slimer deep in my other vagina. He eased out a giant stink
pickle on my fiery biscuits just so he could suck it up like a bulldog eating
porridge. Now, I've had more hands up me than The Muppets, but the sight of his
piss pipe made my spaff trickle like a jizz waterfall. The seemingly
never-ending streams of cock custard emanating from his mutton dagger soon had
me coated like a plasterer's radio. Inserting a squash into my depravity cavity
got me ejecting vertical moisture faster than a greased weasel shit. I can't
wait to devour the love piss from his clunger. Leaving my panties sunny side up
on the floor was the least of my worries as his giggle stick stuffed deeper
into my old dirt road. By now, my sperm socket was oozing like a rabid dog.
There was man fat flowing from his clunger and I was wetter than an English
summer. We were ready for more. When he removed his stilton sword from my poop
chute, he was pleasantly surprised to see a footlong fudge bullet staring back
as him. He knew I couldn't wait to chow down on the sewer trout off his
tallywacker. After having my clam-flavoured pothole pounded, he then proceeded
to slam my poo pipe. I awoke the next morning with my south mouth still
flowing. I thought it was over but his pink tractor beam had other ideas. Some
girls are happy just to fluff the muff when they're alone, but I can't get off
without having a lightbulb in my front bum and a lightbulb up my Oxo orifice.
The feeling of his baby gravy dribbling down my throat got my clunge gunge
flowing quicker than snot off a whip. It was bliss having his blue-veined
custard chucker stuffed inside me again; stuffing my chamber of squelch with a
number of chillies just didn't get my slime hole surging like it used to. He
munched on my spam castanets, even though I'd been walking the red carpet for
the best part of a week. The pounding makes me gush my minge mucus all over his
blind butler. The mixture of colon cobra and Da Vinci load in my poop chute
created the delicious rectal stew that he was so fond of. Hours of fucking like
this would leave any girl's piss flaps looking like Brian May's plughole, and I
was no different! My municipal cockwash was trembling like a shitting dog.
Within no time, I could feel the shitty penis pudding trickling from my brown
mile and all over my roast beef platter. With his tenderloin truncheon plowing
deep into my gaping clam cavern, the sensation of his cheese-crusted cock
smashing my cervix made me quiver like Micheal J. Fox licking a car battery. My
cake hole was so full of love lollipop and baby gravy, the baby gravy was
trickling down my chin and onto my twin peaks.